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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22588954">uptown, get around, anything goes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd'>brookethenerd</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Established Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 13:28:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,633</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22588954</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>a Robin Buckley AU based on She’s So Mean by Matchbox Twenty</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Buckley/Reader, Robin Buckley/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>uptown, get around, anything goes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin is accustomed to waking in an apartment that looks as if it has been hit by a tornado. She rolls over in bed and finds a bundle of jackets on your side, and when she lifts her head from the pile of blankets and pillows, the rest of the room is in a similar state. Shoes without their pair litter the hardwood, various outfits discarded around the bed and leading from the open closet bursting with hangers and clothes. A half-drunk bottle of soda sits on the nightstand beside a handful of tissues, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a pile of half-read books.</p><p>It’s comfortable chaos; the shared space is cluttered and constantly smells of something you burned in the oven, but it’s homey and <em>yours</em>; yours and hers. That alone makes it lovable. Even if you are a flaky, disorganized, borderline snippy girlfriend, you have more life in you than anyone Robin’s ever met, and you’re impossible to stay mad at. Robin has more fun in an hour with you than she’s had in her entire life.</p><p>Robin sneaks a glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand - 10:46 AM - and groans, rolling out of the bed, her bare feet unprotected against the cold floor. She dresses quickly for class and pads through the short hall to the front room, finding you in the kitchen. Music blares from a speaker on the counter, and you bop your head to the beat, wielding a spatula in one hand. Something is already burning, unsurprisingly, and Robin slips around you to shut off the stovetop where your eggs are burning.</p><p>“Morning, homebody,” you say, tilting your chin up in a silent request. Rolling her eyes, Robin ducks forward to press a kiss to your cheek. At the last minute, you turn your head her direction, catching her mouth in a kiss. Your arms wind around her neck, and you press her into the counter, smiling against Robin’s lips.</p><p>“I have class,” Robin protests, pulling away when you try to deepen the kiss. You make a disapproving noise, not releasing her from your space, and duck to pepper kisses along her jaw.</p><p>“<em>Stay</em>,” you whine. Robin relents for a moment, tilting her head back and letting you trail your lips down her throat, heart skipping a beat. You move back up to her face, plopping a purposefully sloppy kiss on her cheek, making her grumble in protest.</p><p>“You’re a heathen,” Robin says, though she doesn’t push you away. Rather, she hooks her fingers through the string knot tied into your sweats, tugging you against her. “A hot mess.” You hum in agreement. The song changes on the radio behind you and at the beginning notes of the melody, you squeal in excitement, twisting in Robin’s grip to bump the volume up.</p><p>
  <em>I kn-kn-know a girl, she gets what she wants all the time/Cause she’s fine</em>
</p><p>You shimmy your hips within Robin’s arms, lips curving up in a show-stopping grin that never ceases to make Robin’s stomach twist and tumble. Your hands make their way to her hips, and you bop to the music, lip-syncing the words. The silent offer is clear in your movements.</p><p>“I have to get to class,” Robin protests as your fingers close around her wrists, raising the limp limbs and waving them above your heads. “Seriously, if I’m late again-”</p><p>“Stay and dance with me,” you say, releasing her hands and stepping back, eyes falling shut, a smile playing on your lips as you sway to the beat.</p><p>
  <em>But for an angel, she’s a hot hot mess/Make you so blind, but you don’t mind</em>
</p><p>Robin is surely going to get chewed out by the old man who teaches her Statistics class, but she has to admit dancing around the kitchen with her girlfriend is far preferable to sitting around a bunch of other clueless students and desperately trying to comprehend hypotheticals. It’s irresponsible, and stupid, and immature. But with her eyes on you, dancing and giggling around the kitchen, the music filling the small room, the scent of burnt eggs filtering into her nose, she doesn’t want to be anywhere else. She doesn’t want anything else.</p><p>With a sigh, Robin pushes off the countertop and joins you, threading your fingers together and spinning you. Your laugh breaks the sky open, happiness threatening to burst from Robin’s chest. You are a pipe dream, destined to dissipate whenever the hallucination falls, whenever reality catches up. But for now, at this moment, you’re hers.</p><hr/><p>You and Robin separate almost immediately when you reach the house party, but she’s accustomed to your flighty behavior - especially when alcohol is involved - and doesn’t blink, heading in the direction of the kitchen in search of a drink. Steve catches her halfway there, sidling up beside her, liquid from his own cup sloshing onto Robin’s sneakers.</p><p>“How are you already drunk?” She asks, earning a wide grin from her best friend. Steve holds out his cup for her to drink, and she takes a drag before handing it back.</p><p>“My tolerance is shockingly low,” he says.</p><p>“That’s not something to brag about.”</p><p>“Oh?” Steve asks, cocking a brow. “Can you get hammered off half a bottle of cheap vodka?” At her frown, his grin widens. “Didn’t think so. Low tolerance has its advantages.”</p><p>“Sure it does,” Robin retorts. “Like perpetually looking lame.” Steve snorts and scans the party, though it’s hard to make out anyone over the bustling chaos of drunk college students and the fog from some asshole’s smoke machine.</p><p>“Where’s your girl?” Steve asks. Robin frowns, stretching up on her toes to survey the floor. She spots you in one corner, standing close to some random guy, laughing and giggling, a hand on his arm. Robin’s stomach twists, the green giant unfolding inside her.</p><p>Robin knows where she stands. She knows that, as much as you might disappear at bars and parties and flirt with strangers, it’s your shared apartment you end up back in. It’s Robin you always go home with.</p><p>She knew what she was in for the day she asked you out - you, a serial casual dater - and still does. But that doesn’t make it easy to watch. It doesn’t mean she has to like it.</p><p>Robin points, and Steve’s gaze follows the line of her finger, his lips turning down in a frown.</p><p>“I mean, I know I’m a flirt, but she even impresses me,” Steve says.</p><p>“Did you just call yourself a flirt?”</p><p>“I did,” Steve says pointedly. “Nice try with the subject change.”</p><p>Robin exhales sharply and leans back against the wall, grateful it isn’t sticky or damp with alcohol or body heat and sweat yet. In an hour, though, it’ll likely be a different story.</p><p>“She’s a hurricane,” Robin says. “Is it bad if I don’t care?”</p><p>Steve shrugs and leans back beside her, elbow poking into her side. She elbows him back, and he jabs her once more for good measure before handing over the cup for her to swig.</p><p>“Long as she doesn’t blow you down, I don’t think it matters,” he says, in a surprising show of wisdom; a drunk Steve Harrington is, shockingly, a philosophical one.</p><p>“And how do I keep that from happening?”</p><p>“You don’t,” Steve says, elbowing her again, lips curling up in a soft smirk. “You just try and hold on tight.”</p><hr/><p>Steve deserts the party sometime between one and two in the morning, departing with a dramatic and intoxicated hug to Robin, assuring her they’d go out for hangover brunch. She makes him promise to down a glass of water and at least three ibuprofen before he goes to bed, and then he’s gone, pushing through the throng of people to the front door and out into the quiet night.</p><p>Robin finishes her drink and abandons the cup on the counter alongside a family of other variously filled conceptions, glancing around the party and, not seeing you, heading for the door. She’s just pushed outside when a hand closes around hers, and you slip outside just before the door shuts behind you. Robin turns to face you, and her chest aches with an inner conflict; should she feel bad about leaving, when you spent the night flirting and talking to anyone but her?</p><p>“Hey,” you say, voice only slightly unsteady. You’re definitely drunk, but not belligerently so. “Leaving without me?”</p><p>“You were busy,” Robin says, subconsciously patting herself on the back when the words come out even. She feels a twinge of guilt when hurt flashes in your eyes, but you quickly shake it off, shrugging back into your persona.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t hang out with you at all. I’m a bitch. I know.” You don’t say it like you’re fishing for a contradiction, but because you believe it; Robin has seen the backside of the mask you adorn.</p><p>“No. You’re not. You’re <em>you</em>. And I <em>love</em><em> you</em>.” Robin’s hands settle against your neck, fingers curling into the hairs at the nape of your neck. You huff, lips pulling into a grateful smile, and wind your arms around her, burying your face in her neck. She wraps her arms around you and presses her lips to your head, holding you tight.</p><p>“You’re my home, you know,” you mumble, lifting your head, nose tracing a line up Robin’s cheek as you pull back to meet her gaze. You smile, tipping your forehead against hers. Your breath is warm against her lips, tinged with the aroma of alcohol, when you whisper, “And I love you. <em>So, so</em> much.”</p><p>The song from the kitchen that morning plays in Robin’s head, one lyric circling around and around.<em> You’ll never let her go.</em></p><p>And she won’t; she’ll never let you go.</p>
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